profit!!

I've made some terrible decisions. I think that is probably true for most people, but it still bears saying. I've made some terrible decisions.

How long does this haunt you? I suppose the obvious answer is as long as it takes to rectify the decision, to correct it.

So, let's play it out, step by step.

Step one: Identify problem/mistake

Step two: ???

Step three: Profit!

the clothes maketh the manchild

Vanity being one of my many vices, I've spent considerable time thinking about clothes and styles of dress. I've experimented with various themes - from an ill-advised and extended dalliance with a grungy aesthetic (I owned for years a pair of high rotation cut-off army pants that I would combine with the requisite well worn Chucks and t-shirts featuring whatever Seattle-based band I was listening to at the time), through to a period where I would only wear functional athletic or outdoorsy clothes almost exclusively constructed from materials that were marketed with terms like "quick-drying" and "breathability". Europe exerted its influence, and my wardrobe grew to include numerous pairs of jeans, Italian leather shoes, and even accessories. I did spend a year or so only wearing (much to my wife's dissappointment/astonishment) bright red Crocs, right though the middle of a Swedish winter.

Lately though, I've been feeling a little frustrated at my clothing choices. This has been building for a while now, from a couple of different directions. As I mentioned, we spent some time in Sweden, a place where people appear to put some actual thought into their clothes, and I began to feel like I should stop actively trying to dress like a slob. Around the same time I became slightly Mad Men obsessed and started thinking it would be nice get around in a suit a little more often. There were some weddings and dinner parties that required formal attire, and I had a couple of professional engagements that called for a jacket and a decent shirt, despite occurring in the academic world where a general sartorial quirkiness (think tweed jackets with elbow patches, corduroy slacks and sandals) is not only acceptable but expected.

Knowing what I liked, but not why, and realising that there were rules out there, I did some research. I like rules. They take some of the guess work out of dressing 'correctly', and it turns out there is another arcane body of knowledge I can immerse myself in and thus once again fulfill my desire to 'get my geek on'.

So research I did. I started following this guy, which ticked all the right boxes - classy and traditional while being approachable (and not requiring immense amounts of money). There are a few others out there as well: The Sartorialist, A Suitable Wardrobe, among others. My vocabulary has expanded to include terms like selvage, shantung and tussah silk knits, grenadines, bicolour ties and houndstooth (not that I really know what these terms actually mean). I developed a desire and willingness to wear 'nice' clothes. Clothes that make you stand taller, that make you look like a grownup and not some rapidly-approaching-middle-aged-man-desperately-trying-to-hang-on-to-his-youth-by-wearing-jeans-and-novelty/vintage-t-shirts.

And at this point in my wardrobe development I find myself in Cairns, where 'formal wear' means leather sandals instead of thongs and shorts that come with belt loops instead of drawstrings and velcro. Admittedly, it gets damn hot here, and the opportunity to layer, to wear long pants or even a decent mid-weight suit without expiring from heat stroke or at the very least ruining your clothes with sweat stains are few and far between. This is a climate that favours those quick-drying 'functional' clothes I am trying to move away from, a place where Crocs actually make sense.

So I bought a powder blue safari suit. Formal attire for the tropics. BAM!

attention deficit

I'm surrounded by distractions. Twitter, RSS feeds, tumblr, the endless text messages, emails, phone calls and now, just to throw a little technological anachronism into the mix, now I have a fax machine on my desk. All this feels like a series of distractions competing for my attention, and I find myself trying (and more often than not failing) to multi-task so that I get through all the things I need to do in a day. I know I'm not alone in this, and it is obviously nothing new - all sorts of people have been writing about the dangers the saturation of modern technology pose to the minds of our precious children. Of course I never get past the first paragraph of any of these articles, so I have to imagine the dangers.

And imagine them I do, when I can concentrate long enough. I imagine that these articles are talking about the lack of time we have to think about things in any depth, and that we are increasingly forced to juggle, make snap decisions, absorb more and more information without ever taking the time to stop and analyse all this wonderful information that is suddenly at our beck and call.

I had a point here. I was going somewhere with this.

That's right. I keep feeling like these distractions distract me from the more important stuff I should be doing. But then I am so distracted that I can't work out what the important stuff is. I guess I'm just a man-child, still looking for that answer. What am I doing with my life?

Running as fast as I can from the idea that I might be wasting it.

Careers advice

Way back in the day, when I was a wee whippersnapper, knee high to a grasshopper, or as my sainted mother says "when I was a boy", I had a class in high school that was all about careers advice. All the usual stuff was covered - how to write a resume, why it was a good idea to turn up to an interview on time (or even 5 minutes early!) and all the standard job-market-preparation stuff. I don't remember much being said about putting some thought into which career might be appropriate. For all I know this was covered in great detail, but one look at my work history would indicate that I either missed that class, or more likely had completely tuned out and spent the hour carving Rollins Band lyrics into my folder. I was an angry young man for a couple of years there.

One thing I do actually remember was the teacher, whose name, if I recall correctly, was Mr. Virtue (is that even possible? How can that not be made up?). I remember that he had a penchant for creeping up on the Yr.12 kids smoking down near the bottom paddock in a bright red sweater vest that must have been visible from a low earth orbit. At any rate, Mr. Virtue told the class one day that in today's job market we, as the upcoming generation of employees, could not expect to land a job straight out of school and stay in essentially the same role for 40 years until we retired to a comfortable life on the pension. Rather, we should plan on having to retrain and change careers up to 3 times over the course of our working lives.

Once again, a quick glance over my work history might lead one to believe that this was one of the few gems of knowledge I actively took on board during my tenure (internment) at that particular school (penitentiary/rehabilitation centre). This is not to imply that I wasn't a good student. School work was one of the few areas I could retreat into, being neither particularly popular, athletic or funny, which was all that really mattered in that enlightened environment.

And yet here I am, rapidly approaching my 34th trip around the sun with nary a solid career path to either look back on with fondness, or look forward to with excitement. How is it that I have managed to effectively tread water for so long with out drowning? The mind boggles. It seems as though in my career choices I have channeled the mind of a 9 year old child in the candy aisle of a supermarket, clutching in a sweaty fist only enough money for a mars bar or a snickers, but not both.

So along these lines - very definitely so - I am applying for yet another degree. Clearly a Bachelors (admittedly only a BA, the ugly stepson of tertiary education) and a Masters of Science have helped me find financially and professionally rewarding work. Another Masters is exactly what I need. I guess (hope) that I may have learned something this time - I am applying for a degree with a vocational outlook. An MBA, so that I can become a captain of industry, wear pinstripe suits on a daily basis, and support myself and my family in the manner to which I have become accustomed (or at least aspire to).

Cue late night reading sessions about finance for managers, accounting practices and organisational behaviour. And the associated procrastination-driven blog posts.

furniture

We've been living in the same house for a bit over 6 months now. I know that doesn't sound like much, but it feels like we've been coasting, just visiting for a long time now. It took us nearly three months to buy a bed, I think partially because we were still in this temporary phase and the act of purchasing large items of furniture would mean that we were staying.

We're also very picky. I've spent so much time surrounded by stuff that was just okay that I got sick of it. There is no reason not to have beautiful furniture. After we folded and bought a bed, we started to collect a few other bits and pieces - a coffee table that we had a local graffiti artist paint, a filing cabinet that got the same treatment (and made me ridiculously happy - my obsession with filing things away got the better of me there), a bookcase. We searched around for months for a set of bedside tables that we liked enough to commit to, to no avail.

Then a little while ago we made the decision (or more properly admitted that it was inevitable) that we would move back to Sweden. Europe suits us better, for a whole range of reasons. All of a sudden this furniture went from being just furniture (pretty furniture I'll admit, but essentially just stuff that fills up a room and gets covered with other stuff) to items that needed to be removed or sold, from things to things in the way. And then we bought a desk, a chair and two bedside tables (the latter of which I am increasingly fond of). And I realised that I had become that person, that we had become that couple. That couple who spend their free time browsing around the warehouses of second hand furniture dealers and auctioneers.

There is no hope.

resolutions 2.0

It's been a little quiet here of late. I won't go into the details, other than to say that I don't want to talk about, and it's really not all that bad. Part of the problem has been that since mid January 2010 I have been without that most essential of element of modern day life: a reliable computer and a stable internet connection to plug it into. I'm clawing my way back into the 21st century now though: I'm even a Mayor on foursquare. I have an iphone, and I live in a house with a surfeit of raw computing power.

All of this is mere apologia and excuse-mongering. The purpose of this post (in academia they call this 'the thesis statement') is to revisit some things I said about this time last year, conduct a review, an appraisal, an audit, and try again. So onto business. In the interests of clarity (and really just assuaging my slightly anal-retentive nature) I'll address each goal as I originally posted it:

Fitness.

Qualify for the Boston Marathon.

Fail. I didn't make the race, partially for financial reasons, but mostly because I was on the move for months and stopped training. On the upside, I did enter (on the spur of the moment) a half-marathon race in Thailand, where I came 4th in my age group. This was a totally decent effort, considering one of the guys who beat me was a professional from Kenya, and I was recovering from one of the most excruciating bouts of food poisoning I have ever had the misfortune of experiencing. The take-home message here, kids, is to stick to a training plan, but make sure it is a realistic training plan, and don't eat oysters in the off season on Koh Samui. I know they look great, but they are really just little time bombs, just waiting to detonate in your digestive tract.

Complete an Olympic Distance Triathlon.

Fail. I missed the season in Cairns, and we didn't move south into that professional job that I was expecting, so I missed (am missing) the season down there. I have, however, bought a bike and made a commitment to racing next June, but more on that later.

Spend more time in the pool. Fail. The less said about this the better.

Professional.

Here's the kicker. I barely managed to finish my thesis, and had to claw back a pass from my examiner to get there. Griffith fell through, or perhaps decided that I wasn't pHd material. I put my head down (in between feeling extremely sorry for myself) and started applying for government jobs in Cairns. That's right - Cairns. After numerous rejections I folded and started applying for hospitality work. I am now a store manager for two outlets of a moderately successful Brisbane based café franchise. This, in essence, is why I have been hiding from the world. I feel like a failure. Which bleeds into the next category:

Be a better partner.

Recently I realised that I have been a self-involved arsehole for the last 6 months or so. My partner doesn't want to live in Cairns, and she doesn't really want to live in a share house. I ignored all the signals (and they weren't that subtle - I'm fairly sure that on a number of occasions she said "I don't want to live in Cairns, and I don't want to live in a share house"), and co-signed a 12 month lease on a share house in Cairns. She, being the supportive and patient person she is, got a job in an industry that she hates and is physically bad for her (more on that on another day, but I'll just say this: RSI-induced spinal osteoarthritis and a slipped disc in her neck). I spent the next 6 months chasing a promotion for a job that I don't even enjoy, spending 6-7 days a week at work and essentially ignoring her (along with all my other friends and family).

Get a dog.

The only resolution I have managed to achieve in the last 12 months is to get a dog. She's been a funny little puppy, and gives the impression of developing into a much larger, but wonderful dog. I can take very little responsibility for this as Hanna has done most of the training, but she is still one of the brightest things in my day at the moment.

So on reflection, I'm an arsehole. And I've wasted the last year. It's time to re-evaluate things (in fact, it's been time for a while, but I've failed to notice this). It's time to start doing things a little differently. It might be time to re-write my resolutions, even though it is nearly April.

for jo

This probably won't make any sense to the 6 other people that read this blog, but it's for Jo.

bangkok

The city is angry. Speeches distorted by cheap amplification ring across the rooftops and echo against the neighbouring buildings. The meaning is lost but the tone makes it clear. The city is angry.

Intersections are blocked, guarded by makeshift gates and eager young men in bandannas and red t-shirts. Hundreds, thousands of people are animated by an energy not often seen this close to the equator, where heat and humidity conspire to rob you of momentum, of direction. It makes you shuffle and dawdle and crouch in the shade of trees.

Now the people seem possessed with an urgency that is at once calm and electrifying. They drive around, riding in flatbed trucks and pickups, grinning. They gather at the intersections and squares, eating and chatting and listening to fiery tirades and waving at strangers. They walk around with purpose and determination, angry and excited and happy all at the same time.

Their counterparts are the uneasy groups of young soldiers and police that seem to huddle at every street corner. They are armed and burdened under riot gear, with heavy helmets and perspex shields, formerly clear but now clouded with the scratches and insults of previous battles. They too seem alert, but less confident. There is much tension in the air, making it heavy, adding to the heat and humidity and smog that sits over the city.

Amidst all this I sit in the company of bronzed and burnt tourists. We sleep and read and laze around a rooftop pool. Occasionally the wind will shift, and the speeches and rallies are momentarily drowned out by the music from the clubs and cafes that line the streets below. We shift about, in step with the sun as it marches across the sky. Oblivious to the tension in the street, blind to the angry city.

ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Given the pace of the changes we witnessed while we lived in Beijing, it should have come as no surprise that 5 years later the town doesn't quite resemble the images it burnt into my memory like a branding iron searing the flank of a very surprised calf.

It's not that Beijing doesn't at first glance appear the way I left it. The differences become a little more obvious the deeper I looked. The taxi drivers still speak an almost impenetrable dialect, but the cars are newer, and the meter now speaks to you in a stilted, robotic english voice, reminding hapless tourists to please remember their things. The high-rises are still there, of course, but there are more and more of them, shinier and somehow more adventurous, embellished with extra facades and angles. The biggest shock came with our first trip on the metro. Gone are the overworked surly old ladies selling tickets, printed on the ubiquitous cheap chinese paper. Gone are the overworked surly old ladies checking those tickets, tossing them into overflowing rubbish bins. They have been replaced by overworked slightly-less-surly younger women in crisp uniforms selling magnetised plastic keycards. There are even automatic machines, complete with touchscreens and english language options. The stations are bedecked with clean white tiles, guarded by x-ray machines and shining, blinking turnstiles. The trains are crowded (that I remember) but people line up at the assigned queues before jamming themselves (sometimes with the assistance of the blue-jacketed platform attendants) into clean carriages, again with english announcements and computerised subway maps. It was almost too easy.

I might go as far to say that the Olympics have ruined this city.

But then we made it over to the west side of town, to districts we once spent a lot to time in. The pavement was cracked. The buses were crowded and we could find our way around. We didn't see any foreigners, and when we did they had that same look in their eye: a studied nonchalance in stark contrast to the mix of exhaustion, frustration and wild-eyed wonderment that marks the tourists of Wangfujing and Tian'anmen. I remembered that look. It says "yeah, I know it's Beijing. It's big, crowded and noisy. It's hard work. But I can elbow those grannies out of the way on the bus, I can shrug off the scammers and beggars, I can get a local price on a knock-off North Face jacket, I can find the best baozi in town." I may have imagined it, but when I wore that look it felt like I was a member of an exclusive club.

And maybe that is part of the indefinable appeal of China. It is hard work. It isn't for everyone. I've said before that this town could make or break a person. I am certainly not the same man I was when I first came here. I joined a club whose membership is defined by their ability to cope with Beijing and not go mad.

My membership may have lapsed over the last couple of years. In some ways Sweden has made me soft. The buses are too clean, the restaurants are too quiet, the air is too crisp, there are not enough people. So today I am going out to renew my subscription. I am going to haggle over prices and navigate buses and argue with grannies. I am going to find that elusive baozi.

journeys

We're about to head out the door. My bags are not packed, I haven't picked up my tickets, my passport is at the embassy (hopefully) getting stamped. I'm seriously under-prepared. I haven't even written a to-do list, and we all know how to-do lists are one of the seven habits of highly effective people. All I have is a departure date - a time I need to be at the ferry terminal in Stockholm. I'm not even sure if we can make it there - the train I have booked may or may not be running due to the snow that has blanketed Southern Sweden over the last couple of months.

It is a curious state of limbo. I find myself unable to complete the simplest of tasks. I bury myself in the mundane - two hours shoveling snow here or there, baking cakes or fixing elaborate dinners, chopping firewood, doing the laundry. Anything to avoid organizing the pile of random things scattered around our borrowed room upstairs. Anything to avoid organizing the myriad things that need to be organized when one moves halfway around the world. Anything to keep my mind busy.

Running is proving to be especially effective. It's tough going out there in the snow and ice, and I have explored my way around Northwestern Skåne, taking random roads as they appear. My mind is occupied taking in the new surroundings, concentrating on my breath, the pain in my legs, the slipperiness of the roads. And then I get to record it all. Data here and there. Websites, time splits, race goals, calories in and out.

So I get to bed each day tired. Physically exhausted. Longing for sleep. And as soon as I lie down (amid the detritus of our move, the dirty laundry - something to do tomorrow! - the piles of paper, the boxes remaining to be packed) my brain, happily switched off all day, springs into action. To-do lists write themselves, potential pitfalls, delays, problems explode into my consciousness. I start sweating (long a sign for me that things are not as they should be, I sometimes sweat heavily at night). So I toss and I turn. I get up. I switch on the computer, looking for a distraction. I don't sleep.

All of this is making me unpleasant to be around. It's not great to leave people, the people you love, the people who have made the last three-odd years interesting or engaging or even possible with a bitter taste in their mouths as you disappear over the horizon on a trip that makes everyone envious. Common courtesy dictates that you should be happy about the trip you are about to embark on. It's not polite to complain about the administrative tasks that are an essential part of the process.

And in the classic way that these things go, I am least pleasant to she who is most important. This has to stop. Today.

Today I will get things done, and feel good about it. Today I will be nice to be around on my last full day with my adopted family.

But first I'm going for a run.

resolutions

I'm not generally one for New Year's Resolutions. If there is something about your life you want to change or improve, why wait until the 31st of December? In my limited experience, most New Year's Resolutions end up in the same place as the empty champagne bottles: discarded.

Nonetheless, there may be some value in writing down a list of goals. The more I think about it, the goals are just another way of looking back on the previous year and saying "if I had the opportunity, this is what I would have done differently". And there might be something to writing down a lost of goals and posting it publicly. After all, there is nothing like the scrutiny of our friends and family to make us reconsider our life choices. In this theme I am borrowing fairly heavily from this guy, a writer I have been following for a little while now, and in particular this post. So in that spirit, here goes:

Fitness:

1) Qualify for the Boston Marathon
I don't actually plan on running the Boston Marathon, but I would like to make the cutoff. The last time I checked it was 3:10:00 for my age group. This represents a significant improvement on my first marathon time. Or to put it in other words, I would have qualified in Berlin if I was over 65.

2) Compete in an Olympic distance triathlon and not come last.
This one has potential. I've only ever done one triathlon, and I came dead last, but that was after some significant cramping, numerous green ant bites, and that bit near the end when I got lost. I think I could be reasonably competitive if I could just improve my swimming, which brings me to:

3) Spend some time in the pool.
I am reasonably fit (most of the time), but I really suck at swimming. This stems in part from a vague fear of drowning. Time to face that demon.


Professional:

1) Get a profession.
This one is kind of easy on paper. Basically, I don't want to be cooking for a living this time next year. I have actually laid some ground work here, but there remain some largish hoops to jump through. I keep dancing around it, but I really need to finish my Masters degree.

2) Get published.
I sort-of, in-a-way achieved this earlier this year, but I think I need to do better. Something peer-reviewed would be nice, but I would settle for an op-ed piece.

Personal:

1) Be a better partner.
Hanna is (at the risk of sounding corny) the centre of my little universe. We're taking a big step this year, what with getting married and all. I don't want to start taking this for granted.

2) Get a dog.
Easy. Life is better with a dog, but I guess the larger issue is that I need to be in a place where owning a dog is a realistic (and reasonable) idea.


That's about it. A mixture of easily quantifiable and harder to measure goals. It will be interesting to see how it all pans out.

setbacks and delays

I'm sick. I hate being sick. I'm really bad at it - the constant denials, moaning/martyrdom, the crankiness - it all makes me a less-than-pleasant person to be around. And I hate that it gets in the way of the things I need to be doing. I can ill afford any delays at the moment, yet I have taken a sick day today (my first in years, and essentially taboo in my current line of work, and it appears that this sick day will stretch into a sick week - no-one wants some pig-fever infected malcontent coughing all over their burger). And what will I achieve with my few hours of freedom gained? Will I get anything done on my thesis? Organise any of the myriad things that need to be organised for a 15 000km move? Not likely. I will probably mope around the apartment and maybe deal with the Swedish public health system.

But really I am just blaming my recent lack of progress on the fortunate arrival of a pandemic. Truth be told, I've been less than effective of late. I was feeling pretty positive for a while there, but then everything seemed to grind to a halt. I went from looking at the next 6 months like it was just a series of items to check off a list to working 80 hours weeks in a job that doesn't encourage long term planning. Unfortunately that job is part of the process - I can't get to where I want to be without the cash that this job will provide.

So I guess I just need to suck it up and find a way of getting all of the bureaucratic nonsense taken care of despite the 80 hour weeks and the despotic ravings of a lunatic employer (in all fairness, he isn't a lunatic, only mildly despotic). It might be time to revert to lists, or one of those other seven habits of highly effective people.

Or I could re-watch every single episode of Mad Men.

adulthood

I've hit a couple of milestones recently: I'm applying for dual citizenship. I ran a marathon. I am completing my Master's degree. I got engaged. I'm starting a PhD. It's been a big year and it's only October.

All these things got me thinking about adulthood. I'm 32 years old yet I still feel like a child. I've never owned a new car. I rent a house. I play video games when I can sneak them in. I routinely sleep in, and whenever I get the chance I spend the day naked, wandering around my apartment.

What does it mean to be an adult? All of the traditional rites of passage have lost their significance. I moved out of home. I moved back when I was 27. I got a degree. I got another one. I got a full-time office job. I had business cards. I quit and got a job picking fruit. I got another job and more business cards. I got a credit card and looked at mortgages. I quit (again) and got a job in a kitchen. I got into debt. I got out of debt. I bought a car. I sold it for $100 on my way out of the country.

I still feel like I'm playing. It's like I cross bridges only to light a match and toss it over my shoulder, feeling the warmth of the flames on my back.

That said, I think I am starting to make the right moves. To make the smart choices. And it feels good. The things ahead of me, the things that are in the way of what I want out of life, are starting to look less like obstacles and more like items to tick off a to-do list.

Now if only I could beat Felix at a game of chess.

hamburgers

A couple of weeks ago I celebrated my third anniversary in Sweden - significant in that I am now eligible for Swedish citizenship. The event itself prompted all of the usual self-evaluations: did I make the right decision coming here? what have I achieved? etc. and so on. This is not to suggest that I have been reconsidering the choice to live here. Quite the contrary. It is just that the date itself seemed significant, and I suppose I have a tendency towards self-indulgent navel-gazing.

Having spent three rather enjoyable years here, I feel fairly comfortable with the rhythms of daily life in Sweden. There is a trap in this kind of familiarity: the assumption that you understand things here, that you get it can be consuming, leading you to miss things. I think one of the greatest gifts of travel is a new eye. When you see a place for the first time you can pick out the details and unique features that are oblivious to the local. Of course the opposite also applies: tourists rarely experience life-in-a-place-as-a-local. The life of an ex-pat wanders between these two extremes, and I had a moment last night that reminded me of this.

I have spent much of my time here working in the hospitality industry, and during those (brief, but pleasant) occasions when I am not professionally involved in the preparation of food I have tried to experience as much Swedish and Scandinavian cuisine as possible. There is a rich food tradition here. The harsh climate means pickles and preserves abound, while the brief but amazing summers give us a bounty of fruits and berries. Sweden's early marauders brought back food techniques and ingredients that have been added to the melting pot with some unusual, but delicious results. I also have the good fortune to know a couple of people who are gifted at recreating this tradition. Jonas, my head chef, with his hunter's eye for wild meat, has exposed me to some culinary wonders (as well as teaching me how to swear in a thick Skåne accent). Nisse, my girlfriend's father, has shown me the depths of husmanskost (which is badly translated as 'simple home cooking' but what my mother would refer to with great relish as 'poor people's food') and introduced me to some of the highlights of Swedish food: julbord (literally Christmas table), Mårtensgås, (a festival in November featuring black soup and goose), among many others. He has also taught me the delights of freshly caught Mackerel and wild mushrooms.

As such, I feel confident in a Swedish kitchen and familiar with Swedish ingredients. I'm not suggesting that I've seen it all, but I have had a pretty good go at the food here: I've eaten surströmming and lived to tell the tale. So last night as I was browsing in the deli section of the local Coop with Hanna I came across rökt hamburgerkött (lit. smoked hamburger meat) and laughed it off as either a food crime or a mistranslation. Until Hanna matter-of-factly said to me "That's just what we call horse meat."

I'm moving back to Australia.

Which is not to imply that I don't want to live in Sweden anymore. I do. I plan on living here again at some stage. It's just that the right set of opportunities opened up in Brisbane, and it seems to fit our needs at the moment, so off we go.

In making this decision, which took some deciding, we were both aware that there would be some significant costs involved. After all, this is not the first time either of us has had to pull up stakes and move halfway around the globe. There are, of course, two options for this kind of move:

• Sell everything that you own (usually at a loss), and head to the airport free of any material encumbrances beyond a backpack.
• Pack all of your stuff and ship it.

On our way here, which was just over three years ago, we took the first option. It seemed to make sense, because we didn't really own anything that was worth keeping (for the most part). Selling my mountain bike at a considerable discount hurt the most - if I remember correctly it put me in such a bad mood that I behaved like a spoilt child for the rest of the day. Conversely, selling the car for the princely sum of $100 to a wreckers yard on our way to the airport felt liberating and vaguely bohemian.

In the meantime, we have replaced all of the various accoutrements of modern day life. One of the advantages of starting out fresh is that you don't end up with a mish mash of possessions, a conglomeration of dissimilar gifts, found objects and purchased bits and pieces. This time around, we had the advantage of living in a place where good design is considered a human right, a place where clever people wearing rimless glasses create beautiful furniture. I am also blessed with a girlfriend who has a discerning eye for that kind of thing. We had a lot of fun putting together our little apartment.

Consequently, we don't want to sell all this stuff that we invested so much time and effort in acquiring. But when I sat down to work out exactly how much it would cost, well, it turns out that sitting down was a good idea. Which is fair enough I suppose, considering the carbon footprint involved. I should probably plant a bunch of trees or something. But it still hurts. In fact, it hurts so much that I have just taken my old job back (in exactly what capacity I am yet to find out, but I can be sure that it will involve either throwing drunks out at 2am, or scrubbing pots/floors/grills). I really thought I had left the hospitality industry for good. While I have enjoyed my various hospitality jobs, they always felt like a means to an end, a way to pay for the other things in my life that I valued more, like travel or education.

So I feel like I have failed in a way. In leaving the industry, I thought I had finally reached a point in my life where I no longer had to take jobs that meant that I worked while others played, where I had to prioritise work over friends and family. Because I never really had the passion that hospitality requires, the passion that inspires people to work 80 hour weeks and invest most, if not all, of their waking energies into an often thankless job. I only had the desperation.

And now I am desperate again, but I hope it is not for too long this time.

olfactastic

I have a terrible sense of smell. This is not entirely a bad thing, and for the most part it doesn't bother me. Like my slightly dodgy eyesight I discovered only a couple of years ago, it wasn't something I thought about very often. Occasionally, though, I would realise just how bad my sense of smell is. Just like those times when I'd be standing at a bus stop and be the last person to work out which bus was coming, my lack of olfactory finesse became obvious when people around would say things like "What's burning?", and "You're not seriously going to put that milk in your coffee, are you?" This can be something of a handicap if you are working with food, for example. I once worked with bartender whose palette was incredible, and I'm pretty sure the guy could smell ultraviolet light.

Generally though, I don't let it bother me. After all, there isn't much you can do about it: being annoyed about not being able to smell much is not the same as being frustrated about my level of fitness, or the fact that I am still barely speak Swedish after living here for nearly 3 years. No amount of nasal push-ups or scent exercises will help me.

In some ways, having a poor sense of smell can even be a good thing. I once shared a dorm room with a guy who was a walking biohazard – in the 4 months that I slept within kicking distance of this little snoring machine, I saw him shower three times, and I once caught him scrubbing the shit stains out of his pants – and I never once wished for a better sense of smell. So it's not all bad. I've been to some really nasty places and never had to vomit, and on those occasions when I have been obliged to clean up someone else's vomit (bartending is a glamorous job at 3am on a Sunday morning), I've not taken a whiff and felt the urge, so to speak.

There are times, however, when I get a glimpse of how evocative smells can be, and feel like I am missing out. Last night as I was climbing into bed I smelt that non-specific smell-of-the-one-you-love, the one that is hard to describe because it doesn't smell like anything at all. It is clearly one of those chemical things where a bunch of molecules latch on to a receptor and send an electric shock straight into the brainstem, hitting all those feel-good, comfort, security, just-got-home-after-weeks-away spots, turning on the endorphins and making it all better. I could manage a better sense of smell if it meant more of that.

living vicariously

In some ways it's to be expected – to quote the song, "the weather outside is frightful" – so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I am spending significant amounts of time without leaving the house. On top of the crappy weather, my class load has dropped to nil (so as to give me ample time to concentrate on writing my thesis), and I have made the oft-dreamt about (and much maligned) transition to a tele-commute, freelance job. Freelancing, it has to be said, takes some adjusting. It's not just the infrequent (and much smaller) paychecks. It's that I have to exercise some self-control, which I have discovered is something I am not very good at (and which partially explains the small and infrequent paychecks).

So instead of doing paid work or finishing my thesis, I have become addicted to the internet. Addicted in general and to a number of blogs in particular. I only worked this out the other day, when I was on the phone to my mother, and I struggled to find a suitable answer to the question "What's new?" There was very little that was "new", aside from the exciting developments between Brad O'Farrell and his cat, or the new recipe that I found over here.

It's a good thing that winter only lasts till spring, and I start frothing at the mouth if I'm not outside for most of my waking hours. It's also a good thing that I have a wireless internet connection, a laptop, and a relatively sheltered spot on my veranda where I can sit naked in the sun.

a dilemma

It has been a little while since I stopped long enough to actually contribute to this thing, but I haven't stopped thinking about it. It sort of sits there, floating somewhere at the back of my head, occasionally popping up (usually when I should be concentrating on something else, but often enough in the shower for me to wish I had some sort of whiteboard in there). Most of the ideas I have are lost in the noise, which irritates me. I keep thinking I should keep a notebook with me, but I am just not that organized most of the time. There is a collection of notes scrawled on the back of envelopes scattered around my apartment - I must do some of my best thinking after opening the mail - to the point where I have fished old envelopes out of the recycle bin just to keep a supply on hand.

But right now I keep coming back to this idea of contribution. This whole Web 2.0 caper is based on the idea of unstructured and open contribution (for more on this I thoroughly recommend anything written by Lawrence Lessig or Clay Shirky). Which is fine, great really. I think the real potential of the web and this sort of communication in general is in allowing and encouraging people to express themselves and connect with each other - great ideas don't come out of nowhere, and really great ideas don't come out of one individual. Of course, I am well aware of the enormous amount of crap out there. The web is full of garbage, but really clever search algorithms help to sift this out, and that is why Google is going to take over the world. And besides, who am I to say that there is no inherent value in 4chan, goatse.cx, that annoying Boxxy girl or any of the other memes that clog up the interwebs?

So contribution is great. I love twitter, and while I might be a little late to the party, last.fm is my new toy. I started a tumblr site. I would like to think that this little rant is a small contribution. But the other day when I was describing some of these things to my girlfriend, she pointed out the fact that I am incredibly paranoid about privacy, identity theft and putting anything about myself online. So I am faced with a dilemma: post inane bullshit that has nothing to do with myself or what I think (which I kind of ruled out in my last post), or pony up, lose some of the paranoia (which may only be a smokescreen hiding my suspicion that I don't actually have anything interesting to say) and start writing.

Or I suppose I could post pictures of lolcats.

text

There are a lot of things that I think about adding to this blog. I find myself spending increasing amounts of time screwing around on the internet, and there are plenty of things that I think deserve more attention, but I am reluctant to turn this into just another list of interesting things I found. I'm pretty sure that particular niche is well covered. Similarly, I have resisted the urge to post photos (partially because I am a terrible photographer), or talk about any of the other things I do when I'm not doing this.

I have eclectic tastes which would make for a confused theme if I were to include (or even reference) them here, and I think theme is important. I suspect this is a manifestation of the compartmentalizing side of my personality, the same side that is responsible for my slightly manic filing habits and the almost obsessive list writing that I indulge in. Life is full of distractions, and if I can keep one small corner of it free of clutter and at least a little organized, I feel better able to cope with the rest of it.

I am by no means an effective multi-tasker, but (and I am loathe to jump into the cliché, but here goes anyway) modern life is increasingly demanding this of us. Email, SMS, social networking sites, twitter all encourage the expectation that not only are we always available (before mobile phones, and yes I can remember that far back, who would make a phone call after 9pm?), but that we are also always on top of whatever is going on.

So this is my little protest. My little calm corner of the world. I am not going to talk about the US presidential election. I am not going to post links to marathon training plans. I am not going to show mouth-watering photos of amazing food, or talk about what album I am listening to at the moment, or which books I am reading.

Which leaves me with a fundamental problem: what am I going to talk about?

bachelor life

In keeping with the extended gaps between posts, I thought I was about time that I added something to this increasingly neglected blog. Little has changed in a metaphysical sense, but that is just a reflection of the state of mind I am in when it occurs to me to jot down some random thoughts; generally I am avoiding doing something that is at once important, but essentially boring. Tonight's tasks: write a shallow little paper about some international conflict or other, edit a small mountain of very dry policy documents, and clean the apartment before my girlfriend gets home. That last one is looking especially enticing. I normally jump at mindless cleaning tasks when I am procrastinating, but recently my dearly beloved has been spending two nights a week in Stockholm, an event that unleashes the hidden sloth inside of me. No longer am I washing windows or dusting the bookcases. Now I have proper cleaning to do: collecting a veritable mountain of beer cans that seem to collect on every flat surface in the house, and picking up the underwear that I apparently leave all over the place, telescoped into little hollow stumps. From this I have determined that I become naked almost as soon as I get home, and I must be about 70% beer by volume.